Anniversary
by Lucrecia LeVrai
Summary: AU, oneshot: the second anniversary of Tomoe's death from Kenshin's point of view. It's a slightly weird, sad story, in which you'll have, among other things, a very OOC Shishio...


Disclaimer: I don't own _Rurouni Kenshin_. It's quite obvious, isn't it? :)

Author's Notes: Well, I wrote this fic a good couple of months ago… but then I promptly forgot about its existence… which is, unfortunately, something I do way too often. I really have dozens of abandoned, unfinished stories stored on my hard drive… and it's high time I did something about them! So, I decided to post this one first. Let's see if you're gonna like it…

By the way… if it weren't for Talaco's wonderful AUs, I would've never written this. Talaco-san, thank you so much for the inspiration. --bows respectfully--

Finally, as usual, I'd like to apologize in advance for any strange, perhaps funny expressions you may find in this fic… or any other mistakes, for that matter. English's not my first language. Accidents happen. ;)

Enjoy! And don't forget to review! Please…? :))

* * *

Anniversary

* * *

The shower feels wonderful on my cold skin, and for a moment I loose myself in this pleasure. Resting my forehead against the white tiles, I think of nothing but the water splashing at my feet. Hot mist fills the entire cabin and, ever so slowly, I allow my body to relax.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Close your eyes. Don't think. Just breathe.

But then, of course, reality comes crushing down my shoulders and nothing feels wonderful anymore. Damn, why did I have to be so… so _clumsy_ tonight? Now I'm going to have a hard time trying to remove all this dried blood from my hair… I sigh, reaching for a shampoo.

Funny. It seems that…

It seems that my hands are shaking.

Well, that's something I don't see very often. I frown and stare down at my trembling fingers. Was tonight's assignment any different from others? …Not really. Then why do I feel so upset all of a sudden?

You know exactly _why_, you fool.

No, no! NO! Don't think, just push this thought away, as if it never crossed your mind in the first place. Don't even _try_ to remember!

But it's too late.

Tomorrow. The anniversary of her death.

I slowly sink to the bottom of the cabin, part of me absently realizing how utterly ridiculous… pathetic… I must look at the moment. I smirk, suddenly remembering a certain conversation from the night before… If only he could see me now… oh, how he would laugh…

* * *

A seedy bar in a not-so-exquisite part of the city. I'm a bit surprised, I expected him to hang out in less… filthy, run-down places. Surely he can afford something better, if not luxurious, then at least decent; a place where you can actually lift a cup of sake to your lips, because it doesn't stick to your damn table. Well, maybe he really has no taste. Maybe he has simply stopped to care. I shrug and step inside.

Honestly, I have no idea why I have agreed to come. Nowadays, I hardly ever get a night off and when I do, I usually prefer to lock myself in my apartment, just to make sure that no one will bother me.

So, questioning my own sanity, here I am, spending this evening in Shishio Makoto's company.

This is so _not_ my day.

By the time I show up, he's already a bit drunk; I notice three empty glasses on the table in front of him. And I'm not surprised to find him in the farthest, darkest corner of the bar. I order two drinks at the counter and swiftly make my way through the tables, towards the place he occupies. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air and I suppress a dry cough. I don't smoke. Neither does he.

I put one of the glasses in front of him and sit down. The closest thing I get to a greeting is a barely visible nod of his head. Then he proceeds to pour the alcohol down his throat, as if I weren't even there. He doesn't thank me, either. Not that it bothers me in any way.

What bothers me, though, is his silence. Some company he is…

Without raising my head, I absently look around. I would have never dared to come to a place like this with her. She liked French cuisine. Red wine. Oysters and…

"Battousai."

He doesn't even bother to conceal his amusement, which I suddenly find downright infuriating. Snapping out of my reverie, I glance at him coldly, pretending that he hasn't just caught me daydreaming. Something's wrong with me, I can easily tell that much. I'm loosing my focus.

"Feh," Shishio smirks at me. "Get over her, Himura. It'd be much better for you if you just let it go. Move on. You cling to the past too much."

Seriously, _everybody_ knows what's better for me. How convenient.

Shishio waves at a waitress to order a new drink. "Find yourself a new woman." His eyes are dark, dispassionate. "At least _you_ can."

He grins at the girl and she momentarily looks away, her breath caught up in her throat. I can't blame her, not really. It takes quite a lot of my willpower, I admit, for me to be able to look straight into his face without flinching openly. I suspect he realizes that, too, from the way he smirks at me sometimes.

There is no such thing as invincibility.

You see, about three years ago, Shishio was caught in an ambush and, even though he miraculously survived, he ended up in a public hospital, unconscious and bleeding heavily. Still, it was clear that he would survive. He had always been a valuable member to the clan, so the Choushuu authorities decided to give him another chance. Katsura sent some of his men, they were supposed to guard the hospital. But they made a mess of their job.

When Shishio was still recovering, a Bakufu assassin slipped into the building, unnoticed. He didn't even carry a gun… just a flask of hydrochloric acid.

Do you see my point, already?

The doctors somehow managed to reconstruct his face… well… most of it. They transplanted bits of his hair here and there. And after they were finished, they probably even congratulated themselves on a job well done.

A job well done. Riiight. Shishio makes Frankenstein's monster look like a _real_ beauty.

And yet he stubbornly refuses to wrap his head in bandages. He says he'd only look ridiculous. Quoting him: "like some frickin' mummy". As he is now, he claims, he can at least appear intimidating.

Now, if anybody asked me, I'd say he appears rather sickening. Mildly put. Nobody asks me, though, and I couldn't care less.

…But these are old times, really. I snap back to reality. A new woman… I can almost _see_ his words dangling right in front of me, suspended in the thick cigarette smoke. _At least you can. Get over her. A new woman. Get. Over. Her._

"I got over her a long time ago," I reply in the coldest voice I can muster.

He takes a long sip from his glass. "…Of course."

I grit my teeth, anger slowly building within me. He has _no right _to lecture me. It's bad enough he knows about her. It happened less than a year ago - a long, long night filled with careless drinking and -BANG!- Makoto-san suddenly becomes my best buddy, my confidant, and I tell him about _everything_, literally everything… Well, sometimes I _really_ surprise myself with my own stupidity.

"What the hell do _you_ know?" I hiss. "It's none your business, anyway."

Fuck. I've said too much and I didn't make my voice sound icy and dispassionate enough. He gives me that knowing, half-pitying, half-mocking look and at this moment I really want to smash my glass into his face, or what's left of it. I will have no one, absolutely no one prying into my personal affairs.

But as much as I don't care about his problems, he doesn't care about mine. "You're absolutely right," he agrees, before I can make up my mind about the glass I'm still clutching in my hand. "It's none of my business." And, all of a sudden, his head rolls back and he starts to laugh. Loudly. Several people look in our direction, but they immediately avert their eyes as soon as they catch a glimpse of Shishio's grotesque face, or my furious one.

I just _hate_ drawing attention in public.

Shishio's mad laughter dissolves into some quiet chuckles, which now sound more like a hiccup. Shaking my head in disapproval, I realize that there are tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. And he's smiling. Well, kind of. He would have been, if only he had had enough facial muscles.

What a madman… He had too much to drink, I decide quickly. I'm leaving.

"We're both so pathetic, Battousai," he suddenly spats, no longer trying to smile. I back away a few inches, unable to read his expression. "Marionettes trapped in the past... This life we lead… it isn't a life at all. When will we both quit?"

* * *

Quit…

The hot shower has made me kind of sleepy. I blink my eyes a couple of times, trying hard not to surrender to this sweet, overwhelming drowsiness. I'm tired from my last assignment and it's already half past one, but I stubbornly fight off sleep.

Playing hide-and-seek with the nightmares. Delaying the inevitable. Escaping into exhaustion.

Blindly, I raise my hand and reach for her photograph.

No, no, no…

What am I doing?

My oppressor. My torturer.

My love.

I fall back onto my bed and roll to the side, holding the picture at arm's length. A serious face trapped behind a layer of glass. I don't have much left of her… nothing at all, really, except for some of her favorite clothes still hanging in my closet, a couple of photos here and there, the scar on my face…

And, as another painful reminder, buried deep within my chest, there's this ice shard that will never melt.

I stare blankly at the photograph. She never smiled. Never. Even when she was happy… only that most often she was not. I knew she experimented with various antidepressants, but they hardly ever worked. She was gradually growing thinner and--

My fault. It's all my fault. Everything's my own fault.

* * *

"Everything falls apart."

I have just closed the front door, only to find her up, waiting for my return. My surprise quickly turns into mild annoyance. I haven't slept in more than twenty-four hours and I'm exhausted. Though practically unnoticeable, there's still this maddening, dried blood under my fingernails and…

And she wants to talk. Worse still, she starts to make excuses. Why can't she leave me alone, just for once…? Why does she have to look at me like this?

"I can't take it anymore," she says softly, for she would never raise her voice at me, no matter what. "Every night you're out there…" --_murdering someone_, we both think at once, but neither of us actually says it-- "…I can't stand it. I'm sick and tired of everything. Every time you leave… when I'm waiting for you, not knowing if you'll make it back or not…"

"I'll always be back," I say, although I'm not so sure myself. Apparently, she knows better than to waste her breath on me. She slowly shakes her head, a shadow of accusation in her dark eyes. "…I promise," I hastily add. My hands are shaking. I find it very disturbing.

There's a long pause.

"Yes…" she finally says. "You will keep coming back… downcast and broken. Too tired to make love…"

I quickly avert my gaze. Usually, I'm not that tired, but I keep lying to her about it. After all, how could I possibly hold her in my arms if my arms smell of blood?

"I…" opening my mouth to speak, I suddenly discover that I have absolutely nothing to say. I've tried reasoning with her a couple of times before, but she never seems to understand.

"Go," her lower lip is trembling. "Wash yourself."

"Please…" The way she makes me feel… I can't stand it.

"…Then why don't you quit?"

Her quiet words instantly make me pause in my footsteps. I turn around and look at her questioningly.

"Quit." As always, she's struggling to keep this emotionless facade, but I won't be fooled. Her eyes betray her. And I can swear that there's a hint of frustration in her voice… but… this isn't a demand. She's… begging. "Give it up. Let's run away… together. We have enough money, so let's leave Kyoto. Tonight." She makes a gesture as if she were to stand up, yet she remains seated. We both know the truth.

We can't. They'd find us. They'd track us down and then they'd make sure we died slow and painful deaths. This is the price of betrayal.

I could risk my life, but I wouldn't risk hers. Never.

We are both silent. She knows that arguing is pointless. I speak nothing but the truth.

"I hate you," she finally says, a single tear trickling down her face.

"I know."

"Hurry up with the bath."

"I will."

* * *

In spite of everything, we still hoped that, in the end, everything would turn out fine. Well, it didn't. I should have never let her stay for so long. She should have never loved me. I was - and still am - too dangerous a man to be loved. But until we both realized that, it was already too late.

* * *

The phone rings. I don't want to answer it. Only three people know my number and I'm not in the mood to talk to any of them at the moment. The problem is, they're all my superiors.

The infuriating sound fills the entire apartment.

Oh, fuck.

I finally stand up and pick up the damn phone.

"Battousai."

"Katsura-san."

"Tomorrow at four. Kokkai Bridge."

"I understand."

The speaker hangs up. I let the receiver fall to the floor.

No, no, no. Not tomorrow.

The phone. I shouldn't do things like that. Next time, it may break.

Every other day, but not tomorrow.

Pick it up. Put it back on the table. That's right.

The anniversary. Tomorrow.

Oh. The battery's low. I'll have to reload it.

I promised… I promised I would visit her.

* * *

It's snowing.

Of course it is. What else did I expect? It _always_ snows when _she_ is involved. Hell, I actually think it's weird that it _doesn't_ snow when I come here in summer.

I like this part of the city; it's calm and peaceful. The cemetery is small, hidden behind an ordinarily looking shrine. It's been only two years. In spite of the fact that I can't help but think about her all the time - or maybe exactly because of that - I don't come here very often.

Still, I know the way even with my eyes closed.

I cross several narrow alleys and come to halt in front of a small pile of snow. Only it's not a pile of snow, not really. The thick white layer hides the tombstone from view, but I'm sure it's right there.

I kneel down and brush some of the snow aside. Fresh and wet, it stubbornly sticks to my cold fingers. Finally, it gives up, revealing a name that was hidden underneath. Everything that's left of her. A single kanji engraved into a piece of grey marble.

Tomoe.

It's best this way, I think. No family name, no years, no empty maxims. When we first met, she said she had no close friends. Her parents were long dead. Her brother, Enishi, went to Europe several years ago and disappeared without a trace. It leaves only one person to visit her grave from time to time. Me. And for me, a plain name is more than enough.

After I finish sweeping the snow away, I reach inside my black trenchcoat, fingers lingering over the sword hilt for a second…

--a false assurance of safety--

…and take out a single red rose. I'm relived to see that it can withstand the cold this well. It hasn't lost any of its beauty.

Just like you. In my memories. Beautiful. Always.

I slowly place the flower where it belongs, on her grave.

Tomoe. I never told you I loved you. Because of who I was, I constantly tried to push you away, honestly believing that I was doing the right thing. Hoping that you would finally understand and let it go. We ended up hurting each other more times than I could count.

You shouldn't cling to things that smell of blood, I told you once, and you just looked back at me with those black, hauntingly beautiful eyes.

But you knew I was lying, denying my own feelings. You knew it was all a mask. And you stubbornly clung to me, no matter what.

You shouldn't have.

You shouldn't have loved me.

Why did I allow you to love me?

…Shuddering --for it's really cold today, isn't it?-- I raise a hand to my cheek, gently tracing the edges of the cross-shaped scar. And I can hear the echo of her words, spoken over two years ago, ringing in my ears.

Quit…

When will I quit?

How much longer?

I gaze at the tombstone blankly, but there's only her name engraved there, not the answer I'm looking for.

I stand up and shake off the snow that has pilled on my shoulders, whisking the remaining specks of white away. It's getting late.

I can't let Katsura-san wait.

* * *

OWARI


End file.
